Chapter Text
Danse macabre Saint-Saëns.
It's a relatively easy song for someone like him. He’s been playing since he was 5 and in competitions since he was 6.
He’s always had a knack for the instrument; that's why his parents immediately put him into lessons the second he picked it up. The lessons aren't so bad. His instructor, Ferret Mc, is harsh and demanding, but he knows he's only trying to push him. Either way, his lessons are going to be less frequent since he’s getting a new instructor at UU Academy, since he'll be living there. Unstable Academy, one of the most prestigous highschools in the world, where students are only allowed in through invitation or a small payment of 5 stacks of Netherite blocks.
His fingers swiftly move up and down across the scales, having memorized the scale positions and song long ago.
He’s allowed himself the childish delight of being excited for boarding school since he’s been homeschooled all his life. He jumped at the idea of leaving the house when he received an invitation letter from the academy, after returning from another competition. The idea of being able to do what he wants and not what his parents want is something he has dreamed of, but it's always felt out of reach.
The strings sing from beneath his fingers.
Still, he doesn't know why he said yes to the academy. He hates the violin. At least that's what he tells himself every time he picks the stupid thing up. He signed up for the academy, where he is going to play for their stupid orchestra. Yet, he doesn't dread the idea; he’s only strongly against it.
His arm moves to accommodate the vibrato; he moves the rest of his body naturally to match it.
He wonders how the students are going to react to seeing him. He is a rare species, being an Endling demon and all. He’s not worried about students being shocked at seeing him, per se. He’s worried about them being scared. His race is known to be aggressive, careless, and erratic.
His body rocks in tune with the rapid interval shifts the song forces him to do.
That's why his parents are so strict with him. His posture, demeanor, speech, hair, clothes, and his stupid face-they don't want him to be stereotyped. Which, reasonably so. Every now and then they’ll go to the End, to the family back home, and he can so obviously see why his parents raised him as they did. He can see their brutality through the scars plaguing their bodies, their aggression when they talk, and the graceless way they move around. It's all uncanny and new, but not something he’s against. He just thinks that lifestyle isn't suitable for the world he lives in. The world his parents forced him into.
Sometimes he wishes his parents hadn't moved when they were teenagers. They were forced to conform to the patterns of the overworld, learning to perfect it and work their way to the top. Maybe then he wouldn't get reprimanded for every little thing like the length and style of his hair, his posture, the tidiness of his wings (he can't even fly, why does it matter?!), his clothing choice, and his lack of jewelry for some odd reason. Why his parents are obsessed with an unusual thing like jewels is beyond him (deep down, he knows he likes the tiara he wears).
Logically, he can see why his parents have this overbearing nature towards him, but he hates it. Hates every second of it. They try to control every aspect of his life to force him to this perfect prodigy son that he’ll never be. Using him as a pawn to show off their prestige to others.
His bow moves smoothly across the bridge; he angles it to match one of the slower (boring) parts of the song perfectly.
Maybe that's why he hates the violin so much. He doesn't hate the pressure of perfection that the instrument holds, he hates how his parents are using his success to uphold their image. Plus some childish desire to live like a normal kid, though he’s not sure he would enjoy that. He’s far too restless to live a “normal” life; maybe he could’ve been an athlete.
His ancestry would give him a born knack for that. He thinks about all the possible things he could’ve been other than a musician. He ultimately believes a nomadic life, with occasional “fights”, would suit him perfectly.
Being able to roam wherever you want and do whatever you want with a cool weapon around your hip sounds fun, a little unrealistic, but appealing nonetheless. Maybe roaming with a friend would be even better, but the idea of having a friend is…weird. Once again, his parents made sure he had as little interaction with anyone else as possible. Reasoning that they are possible competition, and in a competition, people would use any means possible to end up at the top.
He’s alone and lives to fulfill a routine.
He moves his bow up and down sharply. He can hear his tail lightly slapping the wooden floor beneath his feet.
He hates how mundane everything is-lesson, practice, perform, practice, competition. It's all exhausting. His daily routine is robotic, devoid of any personal enthusiasm, and it's all his parents' fault.
He moves his fingers harshly across the bridge, his neck straining to keep the violin from slipping.
He can feel his playing getting worse as he gets more agitated with each passing second. He doesn't care. Can't care. Not when he’s-
Knock
Knock
His hand stops its eccentric movements across the bridge. He can feel himself quickly stiffening with the realization of who's on the other side of the door. He peeps a timid come in, and she opens the door.
As the door opens, he begins to crane his neck upwards to meet her eyes. Her piercing eyes, revealing not the slightest hint of exhaustion despite it being early in the morning, bored into him, asking him why are you up this late? Feeling a strong urge to explain himself, he opens his mouth ready to answer her unsaid question.
“I thought I should practice before our arrival tomorrow". He brings his violin down from his neck to exhibit nonchalance about the situation, despite his tone.
“I understand, but your playing began to grate my ears. Please stick to the piece. Danse macabre is a beautiful, simple song, don't meddle with it.” She sighs, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. Such length would be considered gorgeous at her age, yet her hair doesn't compare to his. Hers fall until her waist, a dull shade of purple. While his goes until his thighs, the purple shines even at the ends. He takes pride in this, one of the few things he holds over her and does by himself.
“I apologize. I wasn't paying attention.” Pathetically bowing his head a little. He moves his gaze from her eyes onto the floor, pleased with looking at his lengthy horns through his shadow instead of her eyes.
“It's alright,” She pats his head, having moved from the door to the middle of his room unbeknownst to him.
“The violin is a demanding instrument. It's only reasonable that you mess up every now and then. What matters is how far apart those mistakes happen. A mistake every line or every few days?” She moves her hand from in between his horns onto the junction between skin and his horn.
“Yes, I know, mother.” He says, dreading what's about to happen next. Her hand begins to scratch against that junction, and he immediately slackens.
“Finish the piece and go to sleep, Wemmbu.” She says, giving a few more scratches to the base of his horn. He reluctantly relaxes against her hand, and thankfully, she moves away, but not without a final pat on his head.
She turns around, hair violently waving goodbye, and horns barely towering over her head. And before he knows it, they say their goodbyes, and he is left alone in his room once more.
He knows if he rests any longer, he’ll waste the few hours he has left. So with a huff, he brings the violin back up to his neck and resumes where he left off.
The sound from the strings lacks the aggression they once had; he lets muscle memory consume him. He can feel himself stiffening with each push and pull of the bow. No distractions to stray him from the notes, only exhaustion fueling him. With a dramatic flick of his right hand, he finishes the piece perfectly.
He stands in place for a while, listening to his breathing. Feeling his adrenaline come down, his exhaustion slaps him in the face, and he begins to feel how tired his body is.
Despite his callous's battle against the strings, his fingers ache from the long hours of playing. His contacts are beginning to fall out due to the dryness of his eyes, which is caused by his inability to take them out every night. His head feels like cotton, and he can slowly feel himself losing his balance on his own two feet. His neck hurts the most though. He can feel the muscles stiffen more and more with each passing second, making it harder to turn his head. Already dreading the medicine he’s going to have to take tomorrow.
His eyes begin to drop the second he sets his violin down into his case. Practicing until daybreak can only be done so many times before the fatigue really sets in. He blearily blinks and gives in to the yawn that's been begging to be let out. He needs to go to sleep, the sun's coming out, and move in day is tomorrow. He looks back down into the case that holds the epitome of his being. Hands already clasping around the zipper, ready to close the case and go to sleep.
Instead of closing the case and going to sleep like any other day, he looks at it. Begging for it to speak to him. To tell him what makes it so magnificent. Why do people willingly dedicate their lives to mastering something that pours out sound? Compete with one another to prove who can play it to its fullest potential. What makes it so special that his parents demand that he play it to perfection. Why is this fickle thing worth more than him?
The sun coming through his window disrupts his train of thought. He needs to go to sleep, he reminds himself. He looks down at the violin and is about to close the case when-
The violin catches the light of the sun. To anyone else, they would describe this sight as ethereal. To Wemmbu, it's a pathetic display of power. He slams the case close and glares at it one final time.
Dragging his feet over to his bed, he collapses on it. His mind seemingly drained from his internal monologue, finally silences itself, allowing him a second of peace. He allows himself to drift into the silence of his mind, temporarily escaping the world until he awakes once more.